


The Great 221B Game

by Sarah Vengeance (Proxima_Centauri)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 44
Words: 9,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proxima_Centauri/pseuds/Sarah%20Vengeance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attempt to write 221 221B's for NaNoWriMo. The Game, Dear Readers, is on!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon!"

The door clicked shut behind the strange man and John stared at it, blinking. It was difficult to comprehend everything he had just known, gleaned off of John just a glance. Amazing, but impossibly frightening.

"Yeah, he's always like that." Mike had obviously noticed the stunned face John was making. John turned the dumbfounded stare to Mike.

"Always? He can look at you and reveal secrets that aren't even yours? Steal information from you and diagnose everything in your head, things you don't even know yourself, and just say them without a hint of remorse or anything? He doesn't have any sense of decency?"

Mike shrugged. "I've never known him any other way, mate. He doesn't stick to the normal routine of things. Runs around London like a bat out of hell most of the time - to be honest, I'm not even sure how he's still alive after all the stunts he's pulled. Those are just the ones I've heard about."

“Yeah, I could understand that.” John shrugged it off, figuring he would deal with it when he saw the strange man next time. “Fancy a drink?”

As he drank his pint, John couldn’t help but wonder what circumstances had allowed the consulting detective his unabashed boldness.


	2. Clock

The first truly irregular thing John noticed during his stay at 221B Baker Street was the distinct lack of convention timepiece within the flat. There wasn’t even a timer in the kitchen to be able to keep track of how long anything in an oven had been cooking, much less keep track of certain time-sensitive experiments of Sherlock’s he’d been performing. 

John began digging beneath piles of papers to search for his mobile – surely an inaccurate timepiece would be better than guessing with no point of reference at all, especially when cooking easily burnable items such as the muffins John was currently making. “Sherlock! Where is my mobile!” John hollered toward the other man’s bedroom.

“On my bed.” Sherlock answered absently. John stacked the papers back into a somewhat neat pile and walked down the hallway to find the sociopath perched in a surely painful thinking pose on his desk. John looked about and found the mobile resting innocently on the duvet; he snatched it up as soon as he laid eyes on it.

“I thought we agreed not to use my phone anymore?” He quipped as he made sure no harm was done to it.

“Had to synchronize my watch.” Sherlock never opened his eyes as he pointed to the timepiece held to his wrist by a thick leather band.


	3. Literature

If there was one thing that the apartments of 221 Baker Street weren’t short of, that was definitely literature.

Sherlock had a veritable library of tomes crammed into the shelves of the sitting room, knowledge waiting to be looked up at a moment’s notice if his mind palace was not adequately supplied with everything he might need to solve a case. Scientific magazines were stacked on the floor next to the armchairs, waiting for perusal by one or the other resident of 221B to educate them further about their respective fields. Newspapers on the desk fluttered in the breeze that was occasionally allowed inside by the open window, rustled slightly as John paged through the daily news, or were used by Sherlock in all manners for his experiments. 

Mrs. Hudson had a small collection of works downstairs, series by her favorite authors or instructional guides on how to cook the perfect roast in just one hour. Her flat contained newspapers, magazines that related the latest scandals of the British royal family (the ones Mycroft hadn’t covered up, they weren’t very revealing anyways), and handwritten letters dating back decades from old friends and her husband.

A reader could likely walk the halls and sit in the armchairs of 221 for the rest of his life and never want for any other book.


	4. Cookies

If given an option for afternoon tea, John would always default back to having a strong cuppa of his favorite brew, steaming hot and just waiting to slide down his esophagus and settle into his stomach to soothe away the day’s the worries and troubles (already numerous, thanks to Sherlock and his experiments).

Sherlock would always ask for coffee, black, with two sugars. The man hardly acknowledged any other form of sustenance existed, especially during cases. The small cup of coffee, amounting to a grand total of just under one-hundred calories, was frequently chosen by the detective so it would not impair his ability to solve crimes. Digestion slows the mind’s ability to process information down, don’t you know.

Mrs. Hudson wasn’t quite as set in her routines, frequently buying and trying new types of tea and coffee to sample and perhaps, if they were any good, share with John and discuss over their favorite episodes of murder mysteries on the telly at night. The woman looked to experience as much of life’s flavor as she could with her remaining years, and what better way to do it than share daily tea with her friends?

Mycroft disliked tea greatly and chose to skip the social nicety when at 221B, usually because Sherlock would tease him about indulging in too many biscuits.


	5. Lance

The case had started out well, Sherlock had deduced that the culprit was a man in his early thirties that had been forging documents for the past couple years in order to make his way in and out of the country while smuggling innumerable priceless artifacts from the Middle Ages into the country to be sold to collectors that weren’t entirely adverse to using the London Black Market to secure whatever items their collection might still be missing. They were currently racing to catch the man, running endlessly through back alleys and over rooftops in an attempt to apprehend him.

“No good – by my calculations he’s running for the museum.” Sherlock huffed out between breaths, still running as fast as his feet would take him over the dangerous terrain. John looked at him with a slight amount of horror – their last chase in the museum had not ended well, especially since John had let the woman he was protecting die at her brother’s hands. “Don’t worry, he’s unarmed. Nobody will die today.”

They climbed carefully through a broken window and looked about, finding an exhibit about the Middle Ages erected in the main hall. John paused for a moment before grabbing a lance from a jousting exhibit. “My gun won’t do - I should be properly equipped for this particular battle.”


	6. Shades of Grey

One of the truly remarkable things about Sherlock Holmes was the broad range of colors his eyes could display. Despite being listed on his driver’s license as ‘blue’ they were ever-changing, the possibilities endless and undoubtedly linked to how that impossibly brilliant brain of his was interpreting the world at that point in time.

When he was excited they took on a vibrant, almost electric shade of blue. They would dart about room, deducing everything in a swift, unceasing whirl of brain power akin to a computer processing calculations effortlessly. When he was intrigued a brief fleck of green would enter them, curiosity getting the better of him as he raced to solve the new, briefly interesting puzzle as quickly as he could. When he was angry or bored they would turn a deep shade of blue similar to John’s in the same mood, darker than the ocean and surely twice as deep. Men feared that color.

Sherlock’s eyes did have a standard state of being to fall back on, the color that his irises became when he was pleased and not too irritated with the world. Every time he was playing the violin, reading a book, or eating with John his eyes took on innumerable shades of grey indicating that he was currently winning the fight against his inevitable boredom.


	7. Faith

John tried to open his eyes slowly, only to discover that he couldn't. He groaned his exasperation. 

The last thing he remembered was hunting for a kidnapper with chipped pink nail polish, of all things, before something heavy had been dropped on his head and he’d been knocked out. In trying to take in his surroundings he discovered that he could hear nothing, his hands were bound tightly together and he could pick out a distinctly acrid odor through the damp fabric covering his face. _Petrol… that’s a bit not good._ He thought relatively calmly, all things considered. 

Cool hands appeared on his hands and neck, causing him to jump a bit. “Who is that?” He questioned fiercely. “I have been trained in hand to hand combat, I’m warning you.”

The hands only scrambled more insistently, digging into his skin and pulling at the bonds around his neck. John drove his right knee upwards, knocking solidly into the other figure. The knots holding him fell free.

Sherlock knelt in front of him, gasping. A man in pink laid bound in ropes a short distance away, a gas can open nearby. “I stopped him lighting the warehouse on fire. You were right, well trained, although you didn't use hands.”

John apologized to Sherlock only after checking the sureness of the kidnapper’s bindings.


	8. Belittle

John breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, they were at another crime scene. This was how Sherlock got his kicks, and John was perfectly fine with that so long as it kept the consulting detective from doing something drastic like burning several hair samples to determine what ash resulted from which types. Sometimes John thought the man had an obsession with ashes. 

"This woman, in her mid-twenties, came here to escape her abusive boyfriend before being discovered and killed by said lover," Sherlock deduced quickly. "A man about five feet seven inches tall with a rather peculiar combination of interests, as bakers don't usually become bodybuilders." 

"How could you have possibly know that," Anderson sneered at him. "Did his footprint show he had a sweet tooth? How do we know he liked going to the gum as opposed to just being obese?" 

Sherlock sighed, turning around to face the strange man who dearly despised him. "The indents on his shoes indicate his weight was located higher and more toward the center of his frame, unlike an obese man. There are traces of flour and baking soda in the grooves made by his shoes. Now do shut up." 

John smirked to himself. This was clearly an intriguing case if Sherlock didn't have enough leftover brainpower to give Anderson an extremely satisfying belittling.


	9. Break

John leveled himself into his armchair and breathed a sigh of relief. Today was the day Sherlock had actually deigned himself able to spend a day in his brother's presence without complaint. Well, with little complaint being voiced, at any rate... and those complaints being voiced in fluid, vulgar French he had learned during his stay in Algeria a few years ago. 

John had decided it wasn't his problem and had slept in, relishing the sound of silence throughout the flat. The sound of silence, that was, until John heard a loud crash from Sherlock's room about halfway through the ritual cup of tea that awakened him every morning. He placed his head in his hands and prayed, cursing inwardly when the detective emerged from his sleeping quarters. 

"John! We will be late to the Japanese embassy if you do not get dressed in the next five minutes!" The detective warned, snatching John's half-eaten breakfast away from him. "Is your leg hurting you? You're usually much quicker in the mornings." 

John grabbed the toast off the plate and glared at the other man. "Sherlock, it is eight o'clock in the morning. You are supposed to be going there with Mycroft, not me." He sighed. "Just for one say in my life I would like to take a bit of a break!"


	10. T-Rexes Hate Push-Ups

When he was younger, Sherlock had absorbed any and all information mercilessly. Anything and everything in all the world was material he might need to know in his future line of work, and therefore all of this information was filed away into precise categories that ultimately only he would understand inside his Mind Palace. 

Around the age of four most boys were either just starting to learn of the vast world of the dinosaurs or were already deeply immersed in it, pretending to be herbivores roaming the plains of their primary school gyms or carnivores disturbing plant eaters with their meat-eating ways. Sherlock had rolled his eyes and continued researching insects, the honeybees in particular attracting his attention. The droning sound of their buzzing always calmed him, sometimes even enough to lull him to sleep. 

Around the age of ten, when his Mind Palace became a bit too stuffed for his current abilities and Mycroft had told him it was alright, he had deleted a majority of the information about dinosaurs he was storing. They'd been long dead and were of no use to him. 

Some knowledge never goes away, it would seem, as from the moment Anderson walked in with a t-shirt about T-Rexes hating push-ups all Sherlock could think of was how alike they were with their pea-sized brains.


	11. Brontosauruses

The amount of inaccurate or falsified things that people, especially the Americans, believed existed in the world were simply astounding. 

Conspiracy theorists believed there was a set located somewhere in the United States where the Lunar Landing had been staged to fool the Russians into believing America had won the race to the moon. Several not-so-clever people had tried to fool the Internet, namely users of eBay, into believing the image of Christ had been burned into a piece of toast. Still others believed that Area 51 in Roswell, New Mexico was a government cover up of alien activity while others believed it simply to be a fraud. People could sell their souls for millions of dollars, claim they found the Holy Grail, and trace false heritages without blinking an eye when discovering the falsehoods. 

An especially important event, although not to the Holmeses, was Sherlock's exposure as a fraud; able to be tolerated simply because they both knew he would be avenging his name and coming back more strongly than ever shortly thereafter. 

The most frowned upon error in history for John had been discovering that his favorite dinosaur as a child was a combination of two separate creatures. There was something to be said for accuracy, but five year old John really had been attached to his toy brontosaurus.


	12. Leaves

Walking through Hyde Park in the middle of the afternoon was surprisingly calm, by John’s standards. It was autumn now, so the majority of the children were back in school during the day leaving only the younger, more peaceful ones to stroll along with their mothers or fathers and play on the swing sets. 

He took a sip of the piping hot tea he had just picked up from his favorite café just around the corner and sat on a bench to watch the little ones giggle happily and ask their parents to push them higher, higher, higher!

After finishing his tea, an idea came into John’s head; he began walking around the lawns, gathering up as many fallen leaves as he could by shuffling his feet. At the end he had a large pile of crispy leaves just waiting to be jumped in. As aging army doctors do not jump in leaves (their shoulders do not take kindly to such activities) John abandoned the pile in favor of returning to his favorite bench.

After a few minutes of checking his phone, John noticed a pair of siblings toddling over to the leaves and flinging themselves towards them. They began to giggle when the leaves exploded into disarray. He smiled, amused, and even more leaves fell as the autumn wind blew.


	13. The Best Arbor Day Ever

“Sherlock, have you ever planted a tree before?”

Sherlock raised an impossible eyebrow at John, trying to deduce what topic his flatmate was trying to broach. “I have not. Arbour Day was never an event my family put a great deal of thought to, and I myself share that sentiment.”

John would have been flabbergasted, had he not been used to the immediate deductions the detective could provide with minimal details. “Your primary school never did anything for it? I know it wasn’t a very popular holiday, but we would always go out to plant a tree somewhere and then learn about seeds or something of the sort.”

“That topic is also covered later in primary and secondary school curriculum; the professors never thought it was necessary to teach the practical application,” Sherlock explained. “A great deal of my peers at the time were appalled at the thought of getting dirt on their hands. A rather stupid idea, but there you have it.”

“Public schools will never cease to amaze me in both how advanced and far behind they are,” John quipped. “Can’t dirty your hands? Really?”

“Would you like to go plant your tree later today?” Sherlock got straight to the point, having already seen John bring the seedling inside earlier.

“That’d be good. They had a sale on birches.”


	14. Helden

"Heroes don't exist, John, and even if they did I wouldn't be one of them." 

One of John's final lessons from the great Sherlock Holmes. Don't make him out to be greater than what he is, because you will end up being disappointed in the end. 

Believe it or not, John had learned that lesson before. He had been around the mad, genius consulting detective enough to know that if you stayed close to him you would get burned in the end. Sally had warned him of that, right? That one day they would stand around a body he had put on the floor, taken the life from with his own hands. 

John had no idea that body would wind up being that of Sherlock Holmes himself. 

"He was my best friend and I will always believe in him." The words that had been placed on his blog not moments ago, a testament that he would avenge Sherlock in his great game. Sherlock Holmes would rest in peace, John would finish that last deed even if it meant the end of his life or his sanity. 

John stood at Sherlock's grave every day and reiterated his promise. He would walk back home slowly anywhere between a few minutes to half hour later, ignoring the wetness behind his eyes with every blink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Helden' translates from German to the word "Heroes."


	15. Pet Peeves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo Sprint!

If there was one thing John couldn’t stand about living at 221B, it was how Sherlock’s experiments overruled everything else in the flat.

There were days when John wouldn’t mind so much – a stuffed body hanging from the ceiling? It’s happened before, no worries. There were other times when he would come back from the clinic and want to sit and have a nice cuppa, though, and that was rather difficult to do when Sherlock’s mold cultures kept requiring all the milk in the house as feed.

Swords and machetes and even Sherlock’s giant harpoon managed to find their way toward bothersome spots in the flat, including where John would knock them over and they would either hit him in the head or leave rather nasty gashes. (After that incident is when Sherlock learned that no, he could not hang his saber above the doorway.)

Overall the good outweighed the bad. The doctor was now fully cured of his psychosomatic limp, for which he was grateful, but some things (namely injuries) got on his nerves.

The last straw was when John walked into the kitchen and found literal stacks of old equipment sitting unwashed in the sink.

“Sherlock!” He roared. “Get in here and wash these; I’d rather our kitchen not be contaminated with more than strictly necessary amounts of bacteria!”


	16. Breaking Into Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo Sprint!

John made his way around the flat, humming quietly to himself. They were going to host a surprise party for Greg Lestrade, as it was his birthday, and the former Captain would not show any guests into his house while it was looking like a hurricane had just gone through it. A thorough cleaning was in order.

The sound of shattering glass came from the kitchen and John signed. Of course he would pick today to be clumsy. “Everything okay in there, Sherlock?”

“It would seem I have poured hydrochloric acid onto our kitchen table, John. Was that cake very important to you?” The distant voice came from the kitchen. John covered his face with one hand, praying to God that this wasn’t happening. “John, who is this ‘Greg’ that you’re apparently sharing this cake with? I’m fairly certain that wouldn’t be a wise idea now.” John whacked the heel of his hand against his forehead lightly.

“I’ll be right there, Sherlock. You don’t have any on you, do you?”

“I’ve not got any chemical burns yet, but time is probably of the essence if you want to save the lino. There’s a rather lot of acid.”

John threw his cleaning supplies onto the couch, minus the gloves. “Alright, but after this we’re going to have to run to the bakery.”


	17. Bisque

One of Sherlock’s favorite things to do what see what John wanted to eat on a particular day, or even for a particular meal. 

For the most part, John’s meals were very indicative of how he was feeling. If he was calm he would indulge in a food that was comforting and familiar to him, something like a casserole. If he was happy or feeling festive he would gravitate toward something from his heritage, usually black pudding or haggis. After a case, when they were both high on endorphins and Sherlock would eat, they would generally go to that Chinese shop that was open basically twenty four hours to pick up something that wouldn’t upset Sherlock’s rather sensitive digestive system. The small Thai restaurant located a few blocks away meant about the same thing, except that John preferred to have spicier food that day.

‘Danger food,’ as Sherlock deigned it, was mostly just an overabundance of coffee and toast. If it was for breakfast the soldier’s mood was okay, but if it ventured into afternoon and evening and he hadn’t eaten then he was either reminiscing about Afghanistan or going through a split with his newest girlfriend. Sherlock brought home Chinese then.

Sherlock had no idea what it meant, however, when the soup John chose at Angelo’s was a tomato bisque.


	18. Forty-Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo Sprint!

Finally. It was finally Friday and John could finally breathe a sigh of relief. He had been working ten hour shifts at the clinic all week; this fact was not helped at all by the torrential influx of sniffle-nosed children carrying the flu virus and other doctors who had called in sick either because they needed a break or were also contaminated.

John had soldiered on, tending to what seemed like his fiftieth pint-sized patient of the day. Once he arrived home he changed out of his office dress and into the much more comfortable jeans and jumpers he was accustomed to.

"Sherlock, shall we order Chinese?" The soldier inquired, grabbing the remote for the telly. "I've got a craving for Kung Pao Chicken, I think... Oh, not you too," he sighed, noticing the raw, red nose adorning the detective's face.

Sherlock made his best attempt at a huffing noise back at him, managing only to squeak in a very masculine manner before flopping dramatically onto the couch. "I realize I am the forty second person that has come down with the flu that you've seen today. No need to be upset. An order of egg drop soup would be welcome."

John reached for the phone. "I'll get the large. I hope that they've learned to bring mine in a box."


	19. Nemesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo Sprint!

“Mind if I sit down?”

“Oh, not at all.” Sherlock gestured to a chair, willing his primary nemesis to sit. He did so and continued his conversation about their game, about how clever he was. Showing off was all it was; if he could control the whole world with ‘a few simple lines of computer code’ he should probably just get on with it already. Sherlock could barely contain his disdain for others showing off, especially when this man did it. Surely his actions spoke for him more greatly than his words did?

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Sherlock. Because I owe you a fall. I. Owe. You.”

The apple had been odd enough on its own, but paired with that deliberate threat, that foreboding… oh, this was getting to be interesting. Sherlock cracked a smile. He should figure out where the computer code was, stay a step ahead of Moriarty, but for once the consulting detective was just too caught up in the feelings it produced, the way his heart and brain were racing to keep up with The Game. Oh, this was intoxicating indeed. Almost better than the drugs.

John walked in a few minutes later, fidgeting and clearly worried. Sherlock greeted him briefly, turning down tea as he had already had his. While thinking, his face became blank.


	20. Bizarre Family Members, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo Sprint!

The umbrella hadn’t always been present in Mycroft’s life.

At the tender age of seven, he had gotten caught in a rainstorm that had mussed his hair and almost ruined his newest three piece suit; he’d just gotten it back from the tailor, and it was deep blue in color. He had run off from the main house to investigate a certain type of fungal growth on the fallen tree near the edge of the property, just over a sizable ravine that was manageable when things were dry, but impossible when wet.

He’d needed to walk all the way around the obstacle, a trek that took him nearly an hour and a half in the ruined dress shoes. Mummy hadn’t been happy, of course. That was an understatement, but Mycroft was willing to take it as he wasn’t keen on upsetting his mother while she was pregnant with his new sibling. He apologized profusely and promised he wouldn’t do it again, especially not after the baby arrived.

When Sherlock was born a few weeks later he took the small umbrella that had been given to him a year or so ago and began to carry it around, always prepared to protect his brother from any incident which might harm him. The children at school learned to give him a wide berth.


	21. Bizarre Family Members, Part 2

Sherlock couldn’t remember a time when Mycroft hadn’t been carrying around that blasted umbrella of his.

The detective couldn’t deduce why his brother always carried the thing around, rain or shine, when it clearly wasn’t needed. He wasn’t keen enough on physical activity to do his own leg work, so of course he wouldn’t be out and about enough during a rainstorm to require such a precaution. Nowadays the tip of his umbrellas were designed to be resistant to everyday wear and tear, especially as the elder Holmes brother used the tool as a walking stick when he was so inclined, but that obviously didn’t explain things.

The primary figure of his childhood, the only thing that really stuck out in his mind, was that of Mycroft standing on the stone patio of the gardens outside their house watching Sherlock investigate the honeybees, the spiders, and any of the other insects that had been wandering around the Holmes estate. Whenever a bee got too close or the particular breed of spider he was investigating might possibly have been poisonous Mycroft would swoop in and drag Sherlock away, the younger practically yowling the whole way into the parlour.

Yes, that umbrella had always been a part of Mycroft, despite Sherlock never seeing it used when lightning had struck and ominous thunder boomed.


	22. Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo Sprint!

The weather in Central London that bright Tuesday was absolutely atrocious, touching a fair amount below the freezing point and keeping most of the residents of the city inside, assuming they were not called into work despite their protests. Children were being kept home from school for fear of getting frostbite walking to or from the building; the wind was a large concern as well, as it was strong enough to catch small children or those with uneven footing and send them to the ground.

John was not a happy man as he walked the few miles back from the clinic toward 221B Baker Street. He’d taken the liberty of stealing one of Sherlock’s old scarves, a flannel sort of pattern made of beige and a sort of sickly-looking mustard yellow that would never have looked good on the already too pale detective, and kept his mittened hands safely ensconced within his jacket pockets. He was wearing two jackets, a pair of long underwear (thermal, as to keep him warmer), and the warmer of his two sets of army boots. His professional clothes were staying at the clinic, where they would stay relatively free of residue from the salt and sand used to melt the ice.

He tucked his face further within the scarf to protect himself from the wind’s bite.


	23. Gambrinous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo Sprint!

It wasn’t very often nowadays that John Watson had time to go out for a drink with Mike Stamford, but any time he managed was definitely guaranteed to be a good time. The two would either stop just for a single drink or imbibe long into the night with two mugs of beer and old stories of their university days combined with how insufferable the new generation was going to be once they got their licenses. After hearing some of the stunts that the new medical students had gotten themselves into, he was almost frightened for what medicine would become.

“…and then, do you know where they would shove these bloody vodka tampons?” Mike slurred slightly, having had a mug or two too many a half hour or so ago. “Up their arses. They’re really quite intelligent, aren’t they? A hole that only has things going out, so they shove something back into it!” He shook his heads. “It’s ridiculous, dangerous, and not close to normal.”

John nodded, taking a sip from his mug. He was trying to take it easy, but he was still feeling quite gambrinous himself. “Taking that much alcohol in through those tissues seems rather dangerous. I can’t imagine that being comfortable.”

“Comfortable? It’d be embarrassing to me. Having a bloody string hanging down between your buttocks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gambrinous: Being full of beer. No idea where the vodka tampon reminder came from, it just kinda flowed in of it's own accord.


	24. The Ice Man

“You know what he calls you? The Ice Man.”

Mycroft didn’t betray it, but the nickname made him cringe a bit inwardly. He hadn’t tried to be so cold his whole life; it had simply been part of his duty. The expectations from the Holmes family were not easily overlooked, despite Sherlock’s branching out with respect to his choice of profession. All the Holmes men work in government offices and have for the past two hundred years, with Sherlock’s desire to create the profession of ‘consulting detective’ being a most notable exception.

Earlier in his life it was impressed upon him that he needed to get through university, obtain a job in the political machine, and obtain a wife. He had done two of those three things by the time he was twenty-four, and the last had been a heated point of discussion at several family gatherings. When Sherlock wasn’t around they had a tendency to pick at Mycroft’s one weakness, as he was the one with whom it was most difficult to find fault. Any weakness was immediately preyed upon.

Mycroft was much like John in the respect that he had a string of one-night-stands – he was unable to get close to people, too many state secrets. He occasionally wondered what would happen if he were to try dating Belina.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Belina is a French goddess - the implication is that he wouldn't mind dating Anthea, who has changed her name to something new this week.


	25. Counterfeit

John and Sherlock combined had an incredibly vast knowledge about the human body and what would happen when certain things were to happen to it (namely injuries, especially bullet wounds in John’s case and stabbings for Sherlock). There was hardly a thought given when they were called to a murder scene to figure out what happened and where the culprit was currently hiding. Nobody ever committed a perfect crime while they (primarily Sherlock) were on the scene.

A distinct lack of expertise abounded when dealing with counterfeiting though, from John’s end at least. He was a very practical sort of man, more prone to action than sitting on a topic and mulling it over in his brain for hours on end. Sherlock hadn’t much practice with it either, despite being able to memorize several long strings of numbers and letters for extended periods of time and call them back at a moment’s notice. 

Their faults with the subject lay simply with the fact that they weren’t exposed to the practice regularly. There are several murders in London per day so it made sense that they would be able to stay in practice for all of those, but when called upon to discern one from the other based on sight alone, though they were unable to identify the counterfeit stack of bills.


	26. Lightning

A crack outside the window of 221B boomed loudly, accompanied by an extremely bright flash of light. John eyed the window warily, hoping that they wouldn’t lose power yet again. The thought was useless, as they probably would, but only time would tell and he wouldn’t start worrying about that right now. “Sherlock, do you have your candles with you?”

The detective swept out of his bedroom, candles in hand. “I hope you’re happy, John. These are real beeswax candles. I was keeping them for a very useful experiment.”

“Yes, well, the torch doesn’t have any batteries and I think that we would rather like to be able to see, yes?” The soldier reasoned with his flatmate and shuffled his way into the kitchen. “I’m going to make myself a cuppa while we still have electricity.”

“I’ll have coffee as well.” Sherlock stated and settled into his armchair with the evening paper, immediately disregarding the sports announcement on the front page.

“Black with two sugars?” John asked, soft clinking coming from the kitchen as he prepared the items that would go into the steaming hot water once it was ready.

“Of course.” Sherlock flipped the page as the lights went out. 

John brought out their beverages, only lukewarm as the kettle hadn’t boiled. “At least I still have my laptop battery.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John likes typing up cases during thunderstorms. Sherlock likes sulking because his candles are being used despite being able to use the laptop as a source of light.


	27. A Sassy Nun

“Now, Sister… Mary Jane? Um. Would you mind describing what you saw again to us, please?” 

John waited somewhat awkwardly, watching the nun standing before him closely. She had long red hair that was exposed by the shredded headpiece she still wore, not wishing to be out of regalia. Her arms were crossed and she was staring John down with intense green eyes. He cleared his throat and tried to put on a patient face. Sherlock stood off to the side, deducing everything about the nun and waiting to hear what she would say to the supposedly more likeable half of their duo. John sent a silent prayer upwards that this wouldn’t be too difficult.

“Dr. Watson, I believe I have already given my statement to the police. If you wish to know what happened, why not just consult the report?” The nun placed a hand on her hip, questioning him with everything in her feminine arsenal. Apparently just because you’re an advocate of God doesn’t mean you have to act nicely. “Or are you too ill-educated to read?” She turned heel and began walking away. “Remind me not to consult your practice, it must be terrible!”

John sighed. Sherlock waited patiently. “She’ll be back, John,” he explained and as he pulled out her rosary. “It appears she’s forgotten her beads.”


	28. Blankets

“John! There’s been another murder!”

Sherlock was hollering from the downstairs hallway, attempting to rouse his flatmate with the least amount of actual physical exertion possible. John burrowed more deeply into his covers and attempted to ignore the detective, and was succeeding until all six feet of Sherlock’s consulting glory burst through his bedroom door.

“Must you do that when I don’t respond?” John almost whined, covering his head. “Some of us would like a bit of privacy, thank you very much.”

“You’re ill.” Sherlock deduced quickly. Three blankets on top of his duvet, flushed cheeks, dry mouth. Either he was going through withdrawal or had come down with a virus; Sherlock knew for a fact that John didn’t take any illegal substances. High moral standards, of course.

“Yes, very good. I am not up to visiting another crime scene today, especially when I won’t be able to keep up with you as we’re running through the streets of London. May I go back to sleep, now? I’ve already called in to work.”

“I will bring you soup – what is it that’s popular with colds, chicken noodle?” The detective didn’t wait for an answer before turning on his heel and bolting down the stairs, coat flowing behind him elegantly. John gave a halfhearted shrug and burrowed himself deeper into the blankets.


	29. Blinding

When you walked with Sherlock Holmes you learned to see everything in almost painful clarity.

The little details are of course included in this assessment – everything from the length and amount of dog hairs on a man’s newly pressed pants and the wire marks present on a person’s hands were critical to cases that no other person could solve, and of course Sherlock would be able to tell that the first was a MI6 agent working for Her Majesty and the second a trained assassin.

Emotions are included as well, though. It’s almost painful to see the motivations behind the murders, be able to tell that that woman was killed out of jealousy, that man for his inheritance money, the child murdered simply because it existed. The world was a cruel place. Sherlock walked the fine line between going insane and withdrawing himself completely, choosing to act instead as though he did not have any particularly strong urges besides pursuing The Chase, The Game, the insufferable need to know he was correct about anything and everything he was able to glean off of a person. Small things like that were what made him act proud, almost preen as he basked in the knowledge of being right.

All John knew was that being able to see human nature that clearly was blinding.


	30. Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo Sprint!

It was a beautiful day, in John Watson’s opinion. The sun was shining, what birds there were that existed anywhere near 221B Baker Street were singing (loudly, but very well nonetheless), the people on the street below were bustling back and forth with nary a care in the world. Yes, it truly was a peaceful, glorious, beautiful day.

Until John heard the fire alarm go off.

“Sherlock!” John hollered, running toward the kitchen. The acrid smell of hair hit him before he saw the scene of a consulting detective with a few of the curls on his head on fire, patting them in a calm manner.

“Not a problem, John. I’ve just been experimenting with how human senses react to burning hair. I am going to stop it before it starts on my flesh.” Sherlock tried explaining to the doctor, eyeing a stopwatch. “You responded in about twenty seconds, although I believe the fire alarm had more of an effect upon that… I should remember to disable that next time…” 

The detective was jarred out of his deductive rambling by a glass of water being thrown at his face, extinguishing the small flames on his head. John stood near the tap, eyes wild.

“Sherlock Holmes, you could not _possibly_ need to figure out how I’d react if your hair was burning!”


	31. Interrogation

"Now Sherlock, I know this isn't quite what you're used to, but a lot of them are quite distraught. I can't have you harassing my witnesses on a mass scale; they could turn on you instead." Lestrade led the consulting detective into the viewing room for a room with a one-way window, flipping on the lights as he did so. "Anything you can give us will be useful."

"So you want me to give you less than absolute results because you're afraid a group of upset women will attack me." Sherlock said icily, putting his hands in his pockets. John shut the door behind himself and went to stand by Sherlock, hoping to placate him. "Incorrect, but I am flattered by your unnecessary concern for my safety. You should have called me immediately, however; I am unable to use their clothing or personal appearances to glean information." 

His gaze moved to the women, rapidly deducing. John stood behind him, picking up on a few things himself. "The woman on the left is the witness; her bruises have almost healed, but are still faintly visible. She also has a fractured fibula, in case you couldn't see how she's favoring it. Limping is usually indicative of abuse, correct?" John nodded. "Right. The rest of these women are chronic drinkers, especially prone to brawling."


	32. Circus

The last time John and Sarah had been on a date was the ill-fated Chinese circus incident; the one where Sherlock had tried to chase down the Chinese Mafia and instead wound up rescuing the couple from the clutches of their over dramatic (to him, anyways) general. John was determined to make this circus trip better and went to a conventional one with elephants and human cannonballs and so forth. Sarah liked it a lot better. So did John, as there was no Sherlock anywhere to be seen.

After seeing a man get chopped in half and reassembled, John left the seats to get Sarah and himself a bag of popcorn. He walked toward a tall vendor and requested two bags. "Bad idea, John, this is too salty for either of your tastes," the vendor warned him. John looked closely to see narrow, blue gray eyes. 

"Sherlock, I thought you weren't interfering with this date," John lamented irritably as he snatched two bags of popcorn from his concealed flatmate. 

"I'm not meddling. I am doing an experiment on social interaction. Tell me, if I make animal noises toward the children would it be too odd?" 

John shook his head. "Yes, it would. You should try something more child friendly. Find some cotton candy to sell or better yet, hand out balloons."


	33. Advice From A Parent

“Mycroft says that I should speak to you occasionally. I’m not sure why, you can’t hear me, but he’s not going to give me the files to a case unless I come here and talk to you for five minutes. Talking to a grave is pointless, but I need to solve the case. 

“How are you? That’s a ridiculous question, you’re dead. You’re probably nothing but dried out flesh and bones now. Nothing of what Mycroft remembers of a father. Did you know that I barely remember playing when you when I was young? I know that we didn’t often interact, because you were busy with work, but I remember a few things. You lifting me up above your head on a sunny day. Rolling a ball back and forth. I can remember nearly everything after the age of three, but I can barely remember you. I wonder why sometimes.

“John talks to his sister a lot on the phone. They talk about his sister’s ex-wife a lot; they’re getting back together, but it won’t last so long as Harry is still an alcoholic. Mycroft and I barely talk. It makes mummy sad. Father, should I talk to Mycroft more often? Please tell me.”

As Sherlock spoke, the clouds broke and sunlight shone down on him in a small, strong beam.


	34. Smashing Gourds

The seasons were passing more rapidly than John could even comprehend anymore, and soon it was time for Halloween. Pumpkins and broomsticks adorned the shop windows of Baker Street, the ghosts and ghouls set up in front of the shops urging patrons to buy their sandwiches, trinkets, and anything else they might have to offer. John began collecting candy and hoarding it in his room in an attempt to keep the food stuffs safe from Sherlock’s experiments; Sherlock decided that he would try a few experiments concerning pumpkins and other gourds. All was well at in 221B. Almost too well.

The squealing sound of a window being forced open pervaded the flat, making John sit up on his bed and abandon the book he had been reading. “Sherlock?” he called tentatively, hoping that the consulting detective wasn’t getting up to anything drastic. After waiting a few seconds and receiving no answer, John got up and began moving down the stairs. He reached the door and braced himself inwardly before entering the living room.

Sherlock perched precariously on a chair, holding a squash as far out the window as he could manage while still staying inside himself. John ran to him and grabbed him around the waist, hauling him back inside; Sherlock dropped the gourd as John let out a warning bellow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The squash didn't hit anyone; thanks, John!


	35. An Intimidating Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo Sprint!

Sherlock and John were crouched behind a storage container located outside an old warehouse near the Thames scoping out the location and movements of a ring of smugglers that were using said building for storing their stolen speakers and other sound equipment. The duo had been outside for the last two hours or so; it had just stopped drizzling, much to John’s happiness (Sherlock had merely turned up his coat collar and kept brooding on, making sure the gang wasn’t moving from their location).

“John, I will be back. Call Lestrade if I don’t return in twenty minutes.” Sherlock whisked himself away from their hiding spot, coat trailing behind him mysteriously. John cursed quietly to himself and looked at his phone, making a note of the time before pulling his coat closer in an attempt to stay warm.

Twenty minutes later there was no sign of the detective’s swishing coat or his mysterious cheekbones. John bit his lip as he hesitated over Lestrade’s selected mobile number, waiting to push send. After a few seconds he cursed again and shoved the phone back into his pocket, moving stealthily toward the doorway.

He pushed the side door open quietly, hoping not to disturb anyone. He stifled a laugh as he witnessed the dancing duel that Sherlock was engaging them in; the style, ballet.


	36. Doubts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo Sprint!

John cast a quick look around the alleyway, making sure that nobody was sneaking up against him. He placed his back against the cool brick wall and took a deep, steadying breath. The world seemed incredibly wrong today, even for a typical day living at 221B.

The soldier had woken up promptly at 6:45am. He rolled himself out of bed and took a shower, brushing his teeth afterwards. He then proceeded downstairs and made a cup of tea. From there everything became weird; he wasn’t exactly sure which way was up. Sherlock wasn’t performing any experiments that he could notice, just reading a book. Calmly. Sherlock was never calm without a case. Had the detective finally decided to settle down? Was this just a phase? How long would it last? Would John’s limp come back? Would the detective's changes be permanent? The doubts pelted John incessantly, keeping him from thinking clearly.

Sherlock had woken up around ten o’clock in the morning; early, for him. He reached for the newspaper, discarding the sports and politics section (too much of Mycroft concealing himself under his pawns, evidently). Then he had insisted John come with to this shady alleyway; he hoped the detective wasn’t doing cocaine again.

Sherlock emerged. “John, look. These are our next case.” In his hand sat five round, emerald beads.


	37. An Overwhelming Demand for Desserts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo Sprint!

Éclairs, cheesecakes, puddings, biscuits, dark chocolate.

These were a few of the things that Mycroft dearly loved to indulge in when he got the chance; unfortunately, most of the time he didn’t.

His little problem had started around the age of seven. His mother and father had given him free reign while they were busy preparing for his new sibling to be born and didn’t watch what he was requesting the chefs to make for him. Two months after baby Sherlock had been born, they finally bothered enough to look at exactly how much weight he had gained (three stone, a rather lot for a small boy) and fired the American chef for letting their son eat so many sweets for the last three to four months.

They began conditioning him to dislike sweet foods, although they couldn’t keep him from eating them entirely. The people the Holmeses hired trained Mycroft to dislike milk chocolate (as well as most chocolate) entirely, and he was only allowed to eat desserts that were made with sweetened fruits and lighter forms of sugar. As he aged, this became more of a preference than anything else.

Sherlock grew up with his brother’s eating problem and didn’t know any differently. When he wasn’t teasing him and was feeling especially nice, he’d send him a blackberry Bismarck.


	38. Skating Rink

Of all the crazy things that Sherlock had dragged him into, John had definitely never expected this one. "No way, Sherlock, I have never been good at it and I've no desire to try today, tomorrow, or ever." 

The consulting detective looked at him with a mildly irritated expression, standing upright on a patch of ice. "Really, John? Ice skating isn't nearly as difficult as you would think it to be. It's exactly like roller skating." 

"No it is not," the doctor argued. "Men have almost gotten themselves killed on those things. The only thing that saved that one goaltender from the American Hockey league was having a Vietnam veteran pinching the man's severed jugular shut while they sewed him back together." John shuddered. "No thanks."

"That case was incredibly different from this, Sherlock argued back. "We are not playing a competitive sport where we will be tripping each other. Nobody here is. The worst that will happen is falling down, and that doesn't hurt."

"Nothing injures the great Sherlock Holmes, does it? Perfect at everything on your first shot? Bet you were an insufferable kid. Hell, you still are." Sherlock watched him silently. "You won't leave unless I do it, will you." Sherlock shook his head to say that no, he would not. John sighed and laced up his blades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lost this one in my uploads somewhere... Glad I found it again!


	39. You Slapped a Fiiiiiish!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by my BFF sending me http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FmxSk0wZxss&feature=share to cheer me up. You're welcome?

John made his way into the flat, shutting the door to the best of his ability before setting the object that warranted all of his new purchases carefully on the coffee table. He then proceeded to set his shopping bags down on the sofa and begin rifling through them. Sherlock peeked his head out of the kitchen, raised the goggles over his eyes to his forehead, and raise an eyebrow. “John?”

“Not now, Sherlock, I have to find the tank for this little guy.” The doctor continued to rustle through the bags, holding up a small plastic container victoriously after a short while. “Aha!” He set it down carefully on the table. “Sherlock, meet our new fish. I’ve named him…”

Sherlock never got to hear what the name of the fish was, because at that point in time he snapped the goggles back onto his head and stalked over to the coffee table. John paused in his story, wondering what the detective was up to. He grabbed the back containing the crimson little fish and held it up to eye level. Without warning he struck the bag with the fish still inside it, sending him flying across the room.

John rushed to the fish, making sure it was okay. “Dude. You slapped a fiiiiiish!” He exclaimed wildly. “It’s just a beta!”


	40. Brittney

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He offered her the world. She said she had her own.”  
> \- Monique Duval

A person certainly wouldn’t peg Sherlock for the ‘dating type.’ No, you’d probably think that he would drive anybody he chose to pursue a relationship with mad, crazy, out of their minds. That anyone normal might actually be interested in anyone who was a sociopath at all, let alone a high-functioning one, is a bit hard to conceive.

It had happened once before, though. The girl had known Sherlock since the beginning of time, or at least for as long as either of them could remember. They had been friends since they were old enough to toddle around their daycare together, Sherlock managing to nick cookies from the snack cupboard and her giggling the whole way. It was only natural that they move from classmates to best friends to romantic interests.

They hadn’t grown apart; as a matter of fact, they’d grown even closer together. Things were looking fantastic; both of their families were happy. The day he’d figured out that the two could spend the rest of their lives together he proposed. 

He offered her the world; she turned him down, saying she had her own.

They remained friends, but she had plans to go to America. A long distance relationship wouldn’t work for Sherlock, so they split up amicably. 

There’s still a room in his Mind Palace for Brittney.


	41. Going to a Theatre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo Sprint!

Sherlock huffed a sigh. He couldn’t care less about popular culture or whatever was happening within it, but John was a fairly avid follower of the motion picture industry. At every turn he was flipping open the newspaper to see what was new in theatres, reviews for the latest releases a nice recreation from scouring the pages for any cases that might be interesting for his flatmate. The soldier usually took his string of girlfriends to the over glorified places, although not to the ones that would cause them to hide behind him from an axe murderer or something of the sort. Nice things, like the Avengers.

The other interesting point was that John hated going to the movies alone, and he hadn’t a girlfriend at the moment.

“I will accompany you.”

John looked at Sherlock incredulously. “You? But you hate seeing movies. You criticize the ones here throughout the whole thing. I don’t really think it’d be good to have you talking throughout the whole thing.”

Sherlock slipped off the dressing gown and hung it up, moving to the wardrobe in his bedroom. “I can stay silent for the duration of a film, I believe. This is the last showing. You’d best hurry up.”

On the ride home, Sherlock spent a full forty-five minutes mocking the flaws of Jason Bourne.


	42. Bodies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NaNoWriMo Sprint!

Both John Watson and Sherlock Holmes could read bodies very easily.

John could tell how and when a person had died relatively quickly, typically in under a minute if he had full access to the corpse and it was in a good enough position to be able to discern things like what state of rigor mortis it was currently in. He could identify the caliber of a firearm by the hole it left while entering; when he was lucky, it was even easier to tell by the exit wound it left behind. He was an expert in how bodies moved when they were alive as well, soft skin and smooth muscles maneuvering however their owners wished them to. He was intimately aware with how these things worked.

Sherlock could tell you what kind of knife had been used, what type of acid or other chemical had assisted the perpetrator in the pursuit of their goal to kill another human. He was a very quick, very thorough study in nearly every subject. This helped him when he needed to use human behavior to find the guilty party; he was aware of what legitimate crying looked like, and even more aware of the signs that someone was lying. He would certainly be an expert if he were to physically study live human beings.


	43. Boron

Sherlock stooped down low, creeping into the corners of the upper-story flat located very near their flat that was now surrounded by police officers and yards of yellow tape. He ran a gloved finger over the top surface and sniffed it lightly. The detective hummed appreciatively to himself and retreated back to where Lestrade and John were standing, peeling off the latex gloves and throwing them toward John. He caught them and glared at the Sherlock.

“They pumped the gas into the apartment; it’s awfully easy to stay distant from your victim when you’re not needed to be there to knock them out,” the detective explained as he brought forth his regular pair of gloves and slipped them onto his hands. “Ingenious; I don’t think I’ve seen a kidnapper do that before. The residue is still painfully obvious, however. The gas he used reacted with something in the apartment and left it everywhere, especially in the corners.”

“How did he manage to keep it just in here?” John asked, curious.

Sherlock whirled around, eyes narrowing. “Special ventilation system; clever and has a lot of money to be spending on this. I don’t blame him for the cock-up, though… not very many people would realize that the victim has been trying to kill the alarming ant invasion with an insecticide containing boron.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if boron reacts with anything that might be used as a kidnapping agent, but I'll ignore the laws of chemistry for right now.


	44. Nails for Breakfast, Tacks for Snacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably not going to win NaNo. Still gonna try.

“Dear, it’s time for your medication.”

Sherlock looked up with bleary, unfocused eyes. He couldn’t be entirely certain, but he thought Mrs. Hudson was in the psychiatric ward solely to give him his medication. He turned his head away with a snort. 

“Sherlock. You need to take this, one way or the other.”

He turned his head more vigorously to the left, away from the medication. His mind spun in circles despite the medication. _Voice, younger than Mrs. Hudson’s age. Not speaking in the correct manner any more. Her appearance is beginning to falter, despite not being able to focus on anything correctly. My psychiatric drugs are wearing off, the workers at Mycroft’s prison are trying to get me to take more and lose myself again,_ he deduced. _Not happening._

The detective clamped his mouth solidly shut, refusing the pills. Mrs. Hudson sighed and walked out of the room. A moment later two men in scrubs walked back into the room along with the woman holding the pill cup Mrs. Hudson had been trying to give Sherlock. Two of the men held down a struggling Sherlock while the nurse pried his mouth open and dumped the pills into it. She plugged his nose after, making sure he swallowed them.

“Refusing medication again. Change his medication time. Inform Mycroft.” Sherlock lolled backwards.


End file.
